


End of the Line

by FeralPen



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 15:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16536917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralPen/pseuds/FeralPen
Summary: Gratuitous introspection and Trevor whump.





	End of the Line

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I wrote after season 2 premiered. Not particularly plot-heavy.

Trevor didn't remember what a family felt like.

He remembered feeling… safe. Back when the Belmonts weren't pariahs - or at least not quite yet - and he'd had a mother and a father and a legacy that made him proud. He was loved, he knew that. His belly was never empty, and the halls of the estate were never lonely or cold.

That was the extent of it. Details beyond a vague sense of safety and repetitious lessons and physical drills escaped him.

He couldn't remember his parents’ faces.

More days than not, his belly was empty. Cold and loneliness were etched so deep into his bones that he wondered idly whether his memories of childhood were just a fanciful dream he'd told himself too many times on nights when the frost bit his flesh and the yawning emptiness inside him swallowed him whole. Safety, warmth, love… distance made the memories bitter. 

Strangers had shown him no kindness as a child. No pity for an orphan of a hated clan, not when the gash they'd left on his face grew puffy with infection, not when he scrounged up the meanest scraps from the trash heaps with the dogs. He grew up mean and he grew up hateful. He learned fast the dangers of hard hands and greedy eyes, about men who would as soon gut him as help him. He learned about women who would look at him with sympathy yet still drive him away as devil-cursed. That rejection was perhaps harder to bear.

He returned to the house when he was older, still underfed and scrappy, but maturing into a man. Not much still stood. He spent days combing the remaining grounds, burying what charred parts of human corpses he found of the poor bastards who'd been barricaded inside. He tried not to wonder who they were.

He was able to scrounge together tools from the parts of the house that were less burned. Some clothes with the family crest. A whip. A sword. He ached to go into the vault, but it was buried beneath rubble, and he couldn't get in if he tried. He abandoned the house in disgust.

Wandering Wallachia became his pastime. Killing creatures of the night in his solitary travels. Working as a farmhand some summers. It was boring and lonely, but what else was new?

The Church offending Dracula changed things.

Finding Adrian Tepes and Sypha changed things.

Questing to kill Dracula changed things.

Trevor Belmont hefted his weapons and went to work. As long as there were Belmonts, there was a bulwark against evil. As long as he stood, one man stood between Dracula and the human race.

He supposed that was a cause worth dying for.


End file.
